by Amanda Scott
With her red-gold curls piled in loose plaits atop her head, her face looked pixielike, her lovely eyes enormous. They revealed a greenish cast that he had not seen before, and their dark lashes sparkled with tiny drops of water, like diamonds. Her skin was smooth, rosy from the hot water, and enticingly touchable. He wanted to lather every inch of her with the bar of soap in the dish on the stool beside her.
“Will you hand me that towel, please?” she asked a moment later, gesturing toward the washstand with one hand while still covering her breasts with the other.
“Where is Doreen?” he asked, realizing that she had expected him to be the maidservant, and that Doreen must have meant to be there to hand her the towel.
“She went to fetch a net to keep my hair up. I think she realized that you had come in, though, or she would have come back by now.”
He liked the way the curly tendrils that had escaped the coil atop her head wisped around her ears and cheeks. One trailed down the back of her neck and he wanted to touch it, to let it wrap itself around his finger. Doreen would not return, and the soap glistened temptingly in the dish on the stool.
“The towel?” Molly said.
“I don’t think you’re quite clean enough yet,” he said, bolting the door.
Picking up the wet soap, he moved the little dish to the floor and sat down on the stool. The thought of touching her, of sliding the soap around on her smooth skin, was almost more than his body could stand. A particular part of it was fairly shouting at him to snatch the lass from the water and take her to bed. But anticipation would only increase his pleasure, and hers. He was going to take his time and enjoy himself.
She watched him silently, her beautiful eyes wide and wary.
With the soap in his right hand, he reached with his left and gently moved the protective arm hugging her breasts. Feasting his eyes on their plump splendor, he dipped the soap in the warm water, and then used it to lather them. When they were silky and gleaming, he let the soap slide into the water with her and stroked the lather with both hands.
“That is French soap,” she murmured, eyes locked with his. “It will melt.”
“I’ll buy you more,” he said, watching her eyes widen as he stroked the mark on her left breast with a soapy finger, then slid it lower to caress the nipple.
Her voice was a ragged whisper when she said, “French soap is expensive.”
“I’ll tell Jamie he owes my lovely wife a bar of French soap. In the meantime, you talk too much.” Leaning forward, one hand still resting on her silken breast, he kissed her. He had intended the kiss to be light, provocative, but when his lips touched hers, the jolt that struck him nearly unmanned him. Heat flamed through him, setting every nerve afire.
He moved his other hand to cup the back of her head, holding her while his lips pressed harder against hers and savored their response. He moaned deep in his throat, and his tongue demanded entrance to her warm, inviting mouth.
His right hand continued to stroke her body, gently at first, then more hungrily, sliding over her breasts to her smooth belly and lower. Just as his fingertips touched the soft curls at the juncture of her thighs, he shifted direction, holding her silent with his kisses while he searched in the tub for the bar of soap.
She wriggled, but her little tongue stayed busy, playing with his, teasing him.
Finding the soap, he lost it again when it slipped from his fingers and slid under her knees. Reaching between her legs, he captured it again and began to soap the insides of her thighs, moving nearer his goal with each stroke. When she moaned and wriggled more, he touched her nether lips with the bar of soap, delighting in her gasp of pleasure. He let the bar slide free of his fingers again and touched her where the soap had touched her. Her body was warm and welcoming, and it took only a few gentle caresses after that to bring her to her peak.
He held her until the spasms eased.
She had shut her eyes. When she opened them again, he said, “I’ll fetch that towel for you now.”
When he released her, she grabbed the sides of the tub with both hands, as if she feared she would slide under the water if she did not hold on.
Grinning, filled with anticipation of what was to come, Fin jerked a towel from the washstand rod and turned back.
The damned voices could chatter all they wanted to tonight. As things were now, they wouldn’t faze him.
Draping the towel over a shoulder, he turned to get hot water from the hob and pour it into the cold pail.
She continued to watch him, her eyes luminous with sensual pleasure.
“Stand up, sweetheart. I cannot rinse the soap off you whilst you huddle in the water. Moreover, that water must be growing chilly by now.”
Slowly, using one hand on the tub sides to balance herself, she stood up, but then she gazed at him steadily and lowered both arms to her sides. Her breasts glistened, firm and shapely, their only flaw the mark that the hot key had made on the soft upper swell of the left one. Her arms were softly rounded, as were her hips and bottom, and her legs were long and slender. Her grace stunned him, and despite the fiery, impatient demands of his body, he stared like a moonstruck lad.
To think that Donald had dared try to take her from him…
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, as if she wondered at his hesitation. Her expression grew wary again, as if suddenly she were uncertain of herself.
“You are so beautiful,” he said quietly as he poured the rinse water over her, taking care not to get her hair wet.
“I’m weak, sir, and I’ll soon get cold if you do not give me that towel!”
“I’ll dry you myself,” he said, holding out a hand to her. “Step out of the tub and move closer to the fire so you don’t become chilled.”
She obeyed, stepping onto a rug near the hearth, still watching him.
“Shall I do your back or your front first?”
Her body trembled. “You choose,” she said, her eyelids lowering slightly, lashes aflutter.
He smiled. “Art trying to seduce me now, lass, or unman me?”
Suddenly shy, she looked at her toes. “I thought you would want…” She swallowed and then added in a rush, “I have never felt anything like that before—what you just did to me—but we have not truly bedded yet. I thought you…” She faltered, looking at him as if she hoped to read the answer to her thought in his eyes.
“We are not done yet, sweetheart,” he said hoarsely. Gently wrapping the towel around her, he turned her face to him, rubbing her through the towel and hoping the fire warmed her. “I just want you,” he said quietly. “You are unlike any woman I have ever known, and you stir a fire in my loins that makes me want to take you to bed and keep you there forever.”
Without saying more, he scooped her into his arms, towel and all, and moved to lay her gently on the bed.
“I’m still wet,” she protested, “and no one has warmed the bed.”
“You are as dry as you’re going to be for a time,” he muttered hoarsely, “and we’ll warm the bed ourselves.”
She chuckled then, saying, “You are too hasty, sir. What of your bath?”
“I swam last night and bathed the day before,” he reminded her. “ ’Tis more bathing than most men attempt in a month.”
“Still, you must take off the rest of your clothes,” she said, pulling the towel out from under her and doing her best to dry herself while in record time he stripped off his shirt, netherstocks, and boots.
Naked, he remembered the fire and went to put more logs on it, but he left all the candles to gutter in their sconces as and when they would. Tonight, he would continue to watch her every expression while he claimed her properly as his wife.
She had slipped under the coverlet and pulled it up to her chin, but he drew it back again, holding it there to look at her and knowing that he would not soon grow tired of doing so.
As he climbed into bed beside her, Molly felt even more conscious of the size of his body than she had before, but she was gla
d that he seemed to hear no strange voices tonight. His hands were warm, and they stirred more heat in her as they caressed her. Her body had been responding to him from the moment she had heard his voice in the room instead of Doreen’s, and in the tub, he had played its tunes as deftly as a piper played his pipes.
He held her in the curve of one arm, lying on his side while his free hand teased the tip of her breast. His hair tickled her cheek. It smelled lightly of the woods and of the leather lining of his helmet. When his lips took the place of his fingers, she gasped as they warmly enclosed her nipple and began to suck. Her body responded as fully as if he had touched her between the legs again. His hand moved lower, teasing her senses elsewhere the way his lips and teeth teased her breast.
Gasping, she murmured to the top of his head, “Tell me what to do.”
His lips released her nipple and he looked at her. “Let me feast,” he said.
She tugged his hair. “Kiss me first.”
Chuckling, he moved up and claimed her lips, his kisses gentle at first, then more demanding. She squirmed against him, hot and ready, and at last, one of his hands eased between her legs, caressing her lightly until, without thought, she moved against his fingers, urging them to do what they had done before.
Instead, they continued to tease until she wanted to scream but could not without stopping his kisses. She was moaning, writhing feverishly, when at last she felt his body ease over hers, and then breath and movement stopped when she felt him easing himself into her.
When he penetrated her, she inhaled with a sharp little cry. It was not the same as in the tub. He moved slowly, and she could tell that he was trying to be as gentle as he knew how to be, but his every movement brought an unfamiliar ache.
Pausing and gently stroking her breasts and belly, he murmured, “It will not always hurt, sweetheart. Your body will soon adjust to mine. You’ll see.”
“Good. How long will that take?”
He chuckled. “Not long, but it won’t happen in a few minutes either.”
She did not want him to stop, ache or no ache, but when he moved inside her again, she gasped, and he went still.
“Is it too much pain?” he asked. “Not really,” she said, surprised that he would ask. What little she had heard about husbands had not led her to expect him to show such consideration for her discomfort. “It’s just that there are so many new feelings all mixed up together,” she said. “Many are delightful, others not.” When he did not reply, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the breath out slowly, willing the ache to disappear.
His lips touched hers, and she forgot the ache, kissing him hungrily, her tongue dancing with his as she savored the exciting sensations his kisses and caresses stirred in her.
When he began to move inside her again, first carefully but then with greater urgency, the aching returned at once and she opened her mouth to ask him to slow down, just for a moment. Before she could, his body moved sharply, then more quickly, pounding against hers, and then it was over.
He lay heavily atop her. She could feel his heart pounding and knew that her own was pounding just as hard, but the ache had already begun to ease.
He shifted his position to lie beside her again. Still holding her in the curve of his arm, he drew the coverlet up higher, saying, “You mustn’t get cold.”
They lay like that for a few minutes, until she felt herself begin to relax.
“Will it truly be easier next time, this part of it?”
“Aye. Does it still hurt?”
“A little,” she admitted.
“I’ll get the cloth,” he said. “You’re likely bleeding, but it will stop soon.”
He slid out of the bed and walked to the tub to get the damp cloth she had used to wash herself before.
“I can do it,” she said, feeling shy.
“Let me.” He was deft, gentle, and quick, and when he was done, he tossed the used cloth into the tub and climbed back into bed beside her. Putting his arm around her, he held her close, and a comfortable silence wrapped itself around them.
Moments passed.
“You’re no longer a maid, lass,” he said. “Nay,” she said, wondering if she was no longer Maid of Dunsithe.
He turned on his side to face her, and his free hand moved idly to stroke her breasts again. To her astonishment, her body tingled and stirred, inviting more caresses. She snuggled closer, smiling up at him, willing him to kiss her. When he did, she felt a sense of power. She had beckoned, and he had obeyed.
He kissed the tip of her nose, her chin, and then reclaimed her lips, lightly, teasingly. His hand was busy, too, stroking her breasts and belly. When a fingertip touched the mark on her breast, stroking it gently, she thought he meant to begin again, and despite lingering soreness, she had no wish to stop him.
He said casually, “Are you certain that no one ever told you how to find Dunsithe’s treasure?”
Abruptly sensual lassitude vanished and her spirits fell. “I know only that it is supposed to exist,” she said quietly. “Why do you ask about it now?”
“I just thought it seemed logical that, during your childhood, someone must have given you some clue as to where it lies hidden or how to claim it.”
As calmly as she could, fighting her disappointment, she said, “Is that why you have been so attentive, so passionate tonight? Hoping I’d tell you all I know about my fortune so you can find it and protect your castle against future attacks?”
“I ask because it occurred to me to ask when I touched that mark, and because I have the right,” he said. “I am your husband, lass. What is yours is mine. It has naught to do with what passed between us tonight.”
“Well, I don’t know any more about it than you do,” she said bluntly. “I’m tired. Can we go to sleep now?”
“Aye,” he said in much the same tone, “but tomorrow you can ready yourself to leave Eilean Donan.”
“Leave?” Shock surged through her as her worst fear was confirmed. Eilean Donan was no more her real home than any of the others had been. “You mean to send me away just because I cannot tell you where to find Dunsithe’s treasure?”
“Nay, lass,” he said more gently, slipping his arms around her and drawing her close again. “I am sending you away because Patrick, Thomas, Malcolm, and I are all convinced that Donald’s men won’t rest until they have avenged his death. I want you where I know you will be safe.”
“But where?”
“I’ll send you to Jamie. He will not deny you royal protection, and I cannot think of anywhere you could be safer than at Stirling under his care.”
“But I don’t want to go to Stirling. I can be more useful here.”
“I did not ask what you wanted to do. I don’t deny that you did well today. Thomas told me that your skill amazes him.”
“But this is my home now. I belong here!”
“You will go to the King,” he said implacably. “I do not want my wife on the battlements fighting alongside my men, risking her life and possibly—now—the life of my heir as well.”
“Very well, then, I’ll go,” Molly said stiffly. “Good night, sir.” And with that, she turned over, determined to ignore him. It was a wasted decision, though, for he held her close, his powerful body warm against hers, but he said no more and she decided he had fallen asleep.
She realized as she dozed off that she had wasted the time she had spent searching for her lacy nightdress.
Fin lay quietly awake, holding her, wanting to tell her he did not want to send her away. He dared not, though. Given even a little encouragement, she would fight to stay, and he could not allow that. Not only would she put herself in danger but also he had to think of Eilean Donan and Kintail. If he died, and she was already carrying his child, she carried their future in her womb. It was long before he slept.
Chapter 19
Claud struggled to waken, vaguely aware that something was happening, but his body refused to cooperate. Shrieking struck his ears from
every side, growing louder, refusing to let him rest.
The Host! Terror stirred his consciousness as nothing else could have. He opened his eyes.
Although the sight that greeted him was terrifying enough, it was not the Host. His mother stood before Catriona, but Maggie had not done the shrieking, for Catriona was still at it. Claud had never seen her so animated.
“Stay away from me, you cursed old besom,” she snapped, arms akimbo. “You may say what you want to your son, but you wield no power over me.”
Claud struggled to speak, to warn her, but even had he managed to do more than open his mouth and gasp, it was too late.
Maggie raised her hands, and Catriona flew backward and up through the air, still shrieking. When she landed, she was hanging by the back of her gauzy green gown from one of the hall banner poles, arms and legs waving wildly.
“You are mad, old woman,” she screamed. “How dare you do this to me!”
Claud held his breath.
Folding her arms across her chest, Maggie glowered up at Catriona. “Dare, is it? ’Tis no I wha’ dares, ye wicked, boiled-brained callat. Didna my Claud warn ye that he stood tae be broken by the Circle for the things ye plagued him tae do? I’ll wager he did, but ye paid his warnings nae heed and continued tae sway him tae your own selfish aims so ye wouldna ha’ tae stir yourself tae serve your ain laird.”
“I did not! And even if I did, it is no concern of yours. Now, let me down!”
“I dinna want tae hear another word from ye, ye triple-turned slut,” Maggie snapped. “Haud your whisst!”
“How dare—!”
Without unfolding her arms, Maggie flicked a finger, and although Catriona’s lips continued to move, no sound issued from them.
Maggie said in a quiet but carrying tone, “Now that a body can hear herself talk, it occurs tae me, my wee wicked baggage, that ye ha’ twice used the word ‘dare’ in speakin’ tae me. Can it be possible that Claud failed tae tell ye that I am myself a member o’ the Circle?”